[Spoiler] God Healed My Back!

The Injury: I've had back issues since I came back from an intense, six-week mission trip with Teen Missions International the summer I turned 12. I started to go to a chiropractor that fall, and have had to return to chiropractic help almost yearly since then.

Knowing this about myself, I typically stay away from unnecessary pressure on my back, and I always practice proper lifting techniques. Until Wednesday last week. The Dorm Olympics were underway, and Lachelle was explaining how to do a piggyback race. But teenagers who speak English as a second language don't listen better than any other teenagers (who actually don't listen worse than adults, for the record, they just happen to be told what to do in groups more often... I digress), so Lachelle said, "Let me climb on your back, and we'll show them how to do the race!" I didn't hesitate. I didn't even put down my papers and markers. I did it all. I am so amazing. We showed those kids how to complete that race good! The Dorm Olympics went swimmingly.

The Pain: On Thursday morning, I woke up with incredible back pain. The muscles between my left shoulder blade and spine were all knotted up and having spasms. I couldn't breathe well. I wondered if I should go to the hospital, or call Leah (my chiropractor friend), but I had no time for that, because I had a prayer meeting from 8 - 10 that morning.

The Healing: I told my fellow prayers about my pain, and how distracted I was by it. They prayed for me, and immediately, the pain started to ebb away. The muscles were no longer having spasms, and I could turn my head to the left, which was causing shooting pain before. I had a bit of pain, but 90% of it went away right then and there.

The Aftermath: As I write this, I'm no longer astonished or even overjoyed, though I feel like I should be. I experienced a miracle! And it's difficult to describe because it was so simple. God did it. Things changed because He intervened! I've prayed for healing before, and not been healed, at least not how I expected. Then this happens, and it was all so simple. I didn't do it. It wasn't that I had more or less faith this time than before. I've prayed with more faith before. I don't know, folks. But God can heal, and we have to keep asking him. Praise God, okay? Praise Him because He CAN heal us, and because he DOES heal us.

Spared

My brother was in a car accident a few weeks ago. He's fine. Car's totalled. It was not his fault. Insurance will cover it all.

My sister had a biopsy done. It's not cancer.

My three-year-old friend was inspired by God to pray for me right before what turned out to be a trying day.

A friend who I've helped fight for is still living.

Elyada: God Knows

On my way home after Christmas, I left my brother's house right before snow began. On the highway, heading south, I supposed I had missed the storm, and I began to praise God. I was so thankful: I hate driving in snow. In my heart, I felt a pressure, and wondered if I would still praise God if it were snowing hard, and the roads were bad. I told God, "Yes. I will praise You then, too!"

Lo, and behold: As my little green Chevy was speeding away down 322 South, just passing Newport, snow began to fall in more than a flurry, in a heavy nonchalance, oblivious to how dangerous it was making the roads. And I began to pray, and praise God for his faithfulness to me at all times, in all things, even if the worst would happen. (I have learned that all people are not as morbid as this. Snow on the road may not cause you to re-evaluate your life purpose, or get right with God. I, however, have never had any illusions of invincibility to which the young are reportedly so prone.) As I prayed and sang, my fear was occasionally uprooted by faith in God, who knows when I will die.

In church last week, I heard voices lifting up his name, voices coming from hearts that have been tested. They have lost children. Their hearts have been stomped in adulterous relationships and divorce. Their bodies have been wasted by diseases and injuries. They have lost jobs, some recently, and been unable to find more work. And they sang out this song:

O death! Where is your sting?
O hell! Where is your victory?
O church! Come stand in the light.
Our God is not dead! He's alive! He's alive!

It's hard to argue with people who know suffering and are still singing about God's love. One friend experienced the loss of his newborn. He said, in the midst of this song, "I can tell you, God is good."

It was a promise that in the worst times, at our weakest, in our fear, God knows.

(Song: Matt Maher. "Christ is Risen." Alive Again. Thankyou Music, 2009 (Admin. by EMI Christian Music Publishing))

June

It's beautiful: being overcome
by simple exhaustion at the end of a school year.

[Breathe.]

It's beautiful.

Being Thankful and Being Sick

Three weeks ago marked an unusual event in my life: illness. I came down with something Sunday evening. Monday, I went to school and taught, bleary-eyed, the only thought on my mind was my bed. A fever started taking me over. By four o'clock, I had called off for the next day, and by six o'clock, I was calling friends to take me to the hospital. I had a fever of 102, and I couldn't think straight. I was fixating on a message I had sent to a friend the night before.

The rest of the week passed in and out of fever. I taught Wednesday through Friday, each day doing just a bit more. I haven't been sick like this since I was a child. It was strange. I forgot what it was like to take my temperature intermittently; to drink hot tea in tiny sips, then feel too tired to finish; to stay in bed, to have a box of tissues on hand; to take medication on the hour because without it, it feels as though Sousa is marching a band on my optic nerve.

A week of being sick. What have I learned? The summary came in a sermon at church that Sunday: thankfulness is a habit. As I lay in the throes of fever, wishing for water, and actually unable to orient my head and feet in order to get it, I was giving thanks to God for indoor plumbing, for daylight, for a job that could do without me in times of distress, for people all around me, for friends and family I could call, for a phone, for my hair (I recall this prayer: "God, thank you that I'm not going through chemo right now. That would be way worse."), for youth, for a million things. In the sermon, Brock was talking about Paul and Silas singing to God in their chains: their joints were probably stretched beyond the limit and swelling painfully; they were probably covered in their own dirt; they were probably bloody, thirsty, hungry, and feverish. But they prayed and sang hymns to God. You don't just live that kind of gratitude overnight. You have to practice, one trial at a time. Thank you, God, for who you are, in my sickness and in my health.

For a while after being sick, I was way more compassionate to the students who asked to be excused from school for feeling ill. In China, attendance is not a big deal. If you are present for your tests (which occur frequently and have huge bearings on your future), if you make good grades, your parents will certainly allow you a day to rest. Shoot, a day every other week to rest. No problem. But in the United States? Well, we call that truancy, kids. The real problem is that I don't know when a person is "actually" sick. Some tell-tale signs that they're not sick, however, include the following:

• no fever
• no diarrhea
• no throwing up
• no headache
• no blood
• no protruding bones
• no tears
• no cough
• student tells you he has a headache, then coughs... to make the headache more convincing
• student limps up the stairs after telling you he has a headache... to make the headache more convincing
• student refuses medicine
• student refuses to go to the doctor
• after telling the student that he will miss free time after school, he gets better
• student walks to breakfast, jokes with friends, walks back to the dorm, then limps to the office to complain of severe back pain
• student has a big test or paper due that day
• student was up all night playing video games

God's Signature: Happy Easter

"If it's beautiful and it multiplies, it must be God's work," said Pastor Josef this morning. It was a fitting comment, for the entire congregation seemed to be wriggling with new life. In a group of perhaps 320 people, babies under one and a half years constituted perhaps 20. Children under three years... oh my. That would be many more. And it would be far too awkward to try to count the children who are soon to be in our midst: pregnant women were all over the borrowed gym for today's service, taking part in the wriggling in their attempts to get comfortable.

I glanced over at J and M with their new baby. But I can never just glance. I looked. I stared. It's a wonder they haven't mentioned something about it, actually. J and M lost a baby over a year ago just before she would have been considered full term. We all mourned this loss deeply, just as we had all celebrated wholeheartedly when we first found out they were expecting.

"It's not fair," I thought repeatedly. I was just as quick to fire back at myself, "Of course it's not fair. A lot of things aren't fair. Are you gonna cry about it?"

Yes. I am going to cry about it, I hope.

But in not too much time, J and M decided they would begin to do foster care.

Just a few weeks after beginning the paperwork, a newborn girl (who looks as though she had been born of the two, seriously) was put into their arms by the foster care system. Hopefully this is a long-term thing. It sure is lovely to see them. And this morning, their little girl was in her baby carrier, fast asleep in a bright Easter dress and a little pink ribbon around her head. Of course, I gained all this by staring, like I do. And when she gave a start and awoke, M took the baby and rested her on her shoulder. Because she's her mom.

Beautiful. And despite their loss, their love is still multiplying.

So, what do I know of fair? I could easily get stuck in that place of "fair": telling God how things should work out.

Like Pastor was saying last week, some people believe that being a good person is good enough for God. But what do we even know about what is good? He expounded, saying, "God has changed my mind many times regarding the definition of good."

I like this new rule. if it's beautiful and it multiplies, it's of God.

Morning

Lord,

I am so profoundly grateful for the bus that is on time, Author of Order out of Chaos.

I am so grateful for the coffee in my hand, the book on my lap, Author of Comfort in time of Distress.

I am so grateful for the hair that blows in the wind, feet that move in rhythm, Persistent Giver of Life in the face of Death.

I am so grateful for the clothes that more than cover my body--even fitting, hugging my waist, draping my ankles, You who give all that I can't believe I had the nerve to ask.

In Pakistan, are the floods receding?

In New York, will the homeless find warmth?

On this bus, will the travelers go home to a garden?

The sun is shining golden, making the sky blue, in Pennsylvania in November.

If gold can make blue

in Pennsylvania,

in November,

then perhaps we have reason to hope.

Oh, to know!

My small group just returned from visiting a man in the hospital. He's well known around here, but I had never met him before tonight.

His wife is lit up from inside. She rubbed his back as she stood beside him, a smile on her face. The room was full with ten people, sitting and standing, all more or less at ease. Clearly, this was not everyone's first visit to a hospital. But even more apparent, they were visiting their close friend.

We tossed a balloon around, then a football. His motor skills were improving, though his speech was mostly garbled. His wife spoke to him directly when she failed to understand his meanings, "I'm sorry, sometimes I don't understand still. But I want to. You're making such a good effort!"

We prayed before leaving. An hour with ten people is long enough to exhaust some healthy people. We first prayed for him. Then for her. As we prayed for her, I noticed him nod his head, his heart in full agreement with the blessings we spoke over his wife: strength, peace. I don't know if anyone else saw, but I was honored to see what he couldn't say in words right now: how he loves loves loves the hands that held his foot, lighting rubbing his sock as we stood around him.

She told us that the last time he was speaking with fluency, the doctor had asked him how he was. "I'm praising the Lord," he said.

It must take a lot of time to become so lovely. It's a stretch for me to realize right now, that God loves me, this man, and his wife with the same love. I had a rare glimpse into the precious heart of suffering.

Everything Natural

I have a hole in my vocabulary: I don't know how to describe landscape. It may be the result of a lack of nature reading. But I am more prone to believe that it comes from a lack of nature. What is a rill? A hummock? What exactly is an escarpment? It sounds like a place where fish might be bred. It gets worse when we're talking about specific types of herbage. As I read James Herriott, a Scottish author, I found myself at a blank when I tried to imagine his environment. I finally gave in and web-searched what peat moss and heather looked like.

My vocabulary hole is even more apparent when I try to write about my environs. I don't even know the name of the tree outside my window. In the summer, its greenery is vibrant enough to obstruct intrusive eyes. In the wintertime, said tree drops its leaves onto our porch from which they are swept into the road to be removed by the street cleaners (which I never see, but know exist, because they are religious about ticketing vehicles). Even after discarding its leaves, long green pods remain on the branches. Throughout the winter, these pods become more and more translucent, revealing small black seeds inside, which obligingly take up the office of the leaves and scatter themselves about our porch, to be swept into the road and then removed by the unseen, yet fastidious, street cleaners. Through my long and fervent commerce with this tree, I have yet to learn its name, or any of its virtues as a plant. As a city-dweller, it merely gets in my way; much like the tree a few houses down which excretes a sap that smells like vomit, and has accordingly been dubbed the vomit tree.

I'm out of touch, you see.
I don't know nature,
and she doesn't know me.
I haven't felt the earth with
my bare, soft feet
in I-don't-know-how-long!
...It may be getting to me.

I remember living in smaller towns growing up. I wasn't so far removed then. I could hike in the woods, and did often. I knew the smaller parks and hiking trails nearby with an almost shameful intimacy. I didn't often feel hungry or tired there. Sometimes, it was a marvel how deeply I lost myself in sunlight and trees. I wanted to be a part of them. Some force would pull me off the trail, to know the outside of the trail, and maybe actually know it... nature, something. Once off the trail, my desire would only grow. There was more, where was it? Knowing tree names wasn't enough, I had to be a part of it, get inside. I would climb a tree, or stoop to the mosses, inspecting the insides of logs. But that tugging does not just go away. Sometimes, in fact, my dissatisfaction rose to anger.

Not long ago, I was visiting Longwood Gardens with my grandparents. While there, I compared it to my first time to Longwood, ten years ago. I had felt that dissatisfied longing to be in nature. I remember how awful it was to be in such an achingly beautiful place, and somehow not really know it. But something was different this trip. As I walked through the conservatory, I felt like singing to God! I felt as though I had to worship and adore the Creator, or I would burst all over the lovely orchids. I smiled dumbly, room after room of incredible colors, each representing a vast framework of design. The longing was still there, but smaller. As I thanked God in prayer for His unrestrained, immoderate beauty, I knew that I was a part of it.

Some Friends

My friend, Rogelio was taken into custody last week and is being held indefinitely for a court hearing. Yazmin and I tried unsuccessfully last week to visit him in prison. Today I saw him through that ridiculous glass as we spoke on the phones. The woman next to me was shouting so loudly at her boyfriend for stealing from her and doing crack, that I could hardly understand his dispossessed sorrowful words, "Es muy feo aqui. Muy feo. Se pelean por todo, por javon, por espacio, por nada. Pero yo he conocido a un dominicano que tiene una biblia. Leyemos juntos y oramos. Y regresamos a las camas. No tenemos mucho de comer." I taught him an English phrase, "this sucks." But he's had more time with the Lord this week than I have in perhaps the entire year...

I'm blessed by my neighbors. I had the most incredible conversation with Yazmin at Waffle House. For some reason, I couldn't communicate much of anything in Spanish today. But she didn't mind. We talked about her history. She told me how she left home at the age of 15 and married her husband-- no one from home knew for several months. He is eight years older than she, and they had some really rocky times in their relationship. She has always been honest with him, though. And she said often between 17 and 20 years old that she wanted to leave, that she didn't love him. But she had nowhere to go, and he did not force her to stay. But he lovingly talked her down when he could. When he couldn't talk her down, he waited.

It's been two years since she's spoken that way to him, especially not in front of her children. She became a Christian two weeks ago, and things have changed in her heart. She's been increasingly aware of how her negative talk about her situation has affected their children. I asked her if she loved Rudolfo. She said she thinks so. But she's not sure, even though she feels grateful to the Lord that he's a good man, and that they are good friends. She is confident that she will love him increasingly as she prays to love him.

My heart exalts in victory. A victory for my God. Praise the Lord.